Penelope Pan by K.B. Plum
An award-winning journalist in her other life, K.B. Plum takes a wild and naughty turn to steamy satire in Penelope Pan, an irreverent take-off on J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. In her first attempt at erotica, Plum ventures into heretofore forbidden territory, applying her long experience as a reporter to topics sure to titillate, amuse and horrify.
Where Peter Pan was meant to appeal to youngsters, Penelope Pan is meant to escort adults into a world of lurid sex, fantastical adventure, and outrageous comedy. The book is also a testament to how a young woman of breathtaking beauty and limitless optimism can lure to the surface the “little boy living inside the grown man.” True, Penelope’s methods are anything but PG rated.
She is, after all, operating in Netherland, a universe both dark and magical, a place where rabbits ride bicycles on silver tightropes and a murderous pirate, Simon Hook, is legendary for stripping men of their testicles. Central to the story is Hook’s Blood Sun Extravaganza, an Olympics of Erotica that features acts in which virgins are deflowered, slaves indulge in sexual domination, and sadists lay the groundwork for the intimate pairing of a handicapped man and woman.
Add to all the licentiousness and ribald comedy, a writer/hero taken captive by Hook and made to suffer all manner of physical abuse while at the same time acquiring sexual fulfillment from his Goddess of Inspiration, a succulent maiden able to trigger his orgasms via titillating imagery she speaks from afar. There are as well, fairies, horny pirates, gay exhibitionists, torture devices, rabid pit bulls, and a grizzly let loose on a damsel chained to a Witch’s Cradle.
What does it all lead up to? The resurrection of a whole man and the reality of a woman most men can only dream about.
Strong adult content includes feminine domination and male submission, oral sex, anal sex, intercourse, animal husbandry, homosexuality, bondage, masturbation, audience sex, kinky relationships, whippings, torture, sadism, and Erotic Stage Productions.
Following dinner, Penelope retreated to the satin-draped chaise and beckoned Zack to join her. Two little glasses and a carafe of brandy stood on a side table. Zack hesitated a moment, wanting to imprint on his memory every last bit of the perfection filling his eyes. With the candelabra casting ripples of light along her body, she reminded him of a Greek work of art, something he had seen in a museum somewhere. Since he never went to art museums, he decided he may have seen it in one of the art books Cassandra displayed on the coffee table to impress the guests they never invited over. Come to think of it, he thought, Penelope was a work of art unto herself.
One strap of her evening gown had slipped off her shoulder, revealing her milky breast, almost to the nipple. The skirt of the gown was composed of flowing panels slit up to her thigh. As she sat on the chaise, the panels fell open to reveal long, silken legs. She wore gold sandal-heels that tied at her slim ankles with white satin ribbons. Slowly, she reached down and untied the ribbons and removed one sandal, then the other. Pouring brandy into one of the tiny glasses, she offered it to Zack. He accepted the drink and sat carefully down, sinking back into the heavenly softness of the chaise. Instead of fixing a brandy for herself, Penelope unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hand along his chest, which prompted him to wrench back and suck in his gut. She responded by whispering an endearment and plunging her wet, warm tongue in his ear. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she stop.
After another few minutes of such intoxicating activity, her hand traveled down to his silver belt buckle. The next thing he knew, the belt was swept out from under him. Now, however, Zack had another disquieting concern. Exactly who was watching this little exercise in foreplay? Straining to look around, he saw only fairy musicians floating high above like sparkling insects. Relatively reassured, he gave in to Penelope’s advances. His shirt open, his fly unzipped, he felt her fingers do the walking, the sweetness of her caresses titillating him to an astonished degree. Never in his life had he been so turned on by a woman. Even in the initial stages with Cassandra, their sex life had always been primarily about her. As for Penelope, expectations had as yet to be invented for the likes of his Goddess of Inspiration. She transcended everything he ever imagined about the female sex, about himself.
Except for the goddamn red thong. Every now and then he glimpsed it, pulsing up and down with the hard-on that was shoving up through his open fly. Instead of hating the stupid thong, he thanked God and all the angels for it. Minus the silly string of an under thing, he might not be experiencing those expert fingers sliding beneath the elastic band and venturing into dark, damp, thrilling places he never knew existed. Where in God’s name had those places been hiding?
When he could tolerate the exquisite agony no longer, he tore her hand away, smoothed her hair back from her damp brow and kissed her long and hard, thrusting his tongue deep inside her mouth. Hopefully, the feverish exploration would keep him from thinking too much about the Big Guy’s perilous predicament. For if Zack had not stopped Penelope’s roving fingers, he would have erupted all over the chaise, flooded the dance floor and drowned the fucking fairies.
In the aftermath of their first kiss, he held her a little apart from him, slipped the strap of her gown further down her shoulder and marveled at her breast. It bloomed in all its double-D perfection before his dazzled eyes. Slowly, he bent down and traced his tongue around the darkened areola. Licking and sucking the aroused nipple, he felt inside her bodice for her other breast and kneaded it softly. Penelope sighed with rapture, her body curving to meet his hand, her tongue his tongue, her kiss his kiss…
And then she stopped.
Smiling in the candlelight, she sat up and pressed him back on the chaise. “This night is for you,” she said, cupping both breasts in her hands as if offering him a gift. He began to reach for her again, but she slid out of his grasp, stood up and began to remove her gown. As the last bit of golden fabric dropped to the floor, a shuttering sound emanated from somewhere deep inside Zack. Her skin was ethereal, the purist white. Shadows caressed the sweet path between her breasts, the curve of her belly, the wondrous secrets held between those long, slender legs. She looked silken all over, carved out of Ivory soap, yet exquisitely alive, pulsing with life.
And then there was Zack, sprawled on the chaise like a half-dressed, bloated corpse. Feeling morbidly obese by comparison, he deeply regretted never auditioning for “The Biggest Loser”. Only about 15 or 20 pounds overweight, he hated, loathed and despised his body. The idea of shedding all his clothes in front of Penelope made him cringe. He wondered if she would zero in on his stomach the way Cassandra always did. Nothing could deflate his hard-on quicker than a dame spying on his rubber tire. But when he finally removed his clothes, Penelope’s careful scrutiny resulted in miracles. He might as well have been a svelte dude, buffed up, sorta like John Travolta strutting down the sidewalk in Saturday Night Fever. Seeing nothing but admiration in her eyes gave Zack the courage to go for broke. He even twirled the red thong on his finger before flinging it aside.
As she drew closer, the little fairies swirled above them like fire flies. Their music turned primitive, drums beating, a Congo mating dance. Kneeling on the floor beside him, Penelope began covering Zack with wet kisses, licking his chest, and running her tongue over his stomach, teasing him as she headed south. All thoughts of rubber tires, Biggest Losers and pie-ala-mode discarded, he marveled at her expert management of the situation, the way she amused him with sounds he had never heard and told stories that made little sense, all the while keeping him on the verge of orgasm. At one point, he could have sworn the panther had moved atop him, but the cats were elsewhere, Penelope still practicing her art from a kneeling position. Then, totally without warning, she proceeded to the foot of the chaise, slid between his legs and hoisted his thighs up on her shoulders. Using brute force that astonished him, she yanked him forward so that his butt was perched at the edge of the chaise, his legs spread-eagled and the Big Guy saluting all the ships at sea.
Momentarily distracted by dazzling red dust that floated down from somewhere above (probably heaven, he thought), Zack was jolted by an additional sense of well-being (as if he needed it). At the same instant, he felt his throbbing dick enclosed in the wondrous softness of her mouth. Her plump, peach lips lightly secured around him, she moved up and down in a steady repetition that grew in speed and intensity. There followed such a desperate and swift movement of her tongue that Zack heard himself moan like someone who had just lost his foot to a landmine. Now and then, Penelope altered the routine, holding the Big Guy perfectly still in the curve of her tongue—until she started all over again. The mind-bending blowjob stopped only when she wished to tease him or avoid a premature outcome.
Eventually, things came to such an urgent head that nothing—not an Al Qaeda terrorist attack, not a LeBron James dunk, not all the Housewives of Orange County—could have prevented what happened next. Wave after wave spilled out of him, cum careening like a white-water river, surging, cresting, crashing over the rocks, racing for miles and miles, leaping, bending, ripping—soaring until it tumbled into the boiling sea. During it all, Zack had Penelope’s face jammed so hard against his genitals he worried she might suffocate. But so what? So she choked to death with the unleashed monster crammed down her throat? What was Penelope Pan, after all, but a figment of his sexually explicit imagination? Nothing this good existed on the face of the Earth. Probably not even in Paradise.
Only vaguely aware that a symphony orchestra had struck up “The Age of Aquarius” (all Heaven’s angels seemed to have joined in the chorus) Zack listened as he regained consciousness. Wondering if he would find Penelope dead at his feet, he felt brandied lips kiss each eye, which he opened hesitantly. “Thank God, you’re still here,” he said, smoothing her hair.
“That’s all you have to thank God for?” she asked, bending down to give his rapidly-deflating pecker a kiss. “So, you’re an Aquarius, huh? Ralph always gets it right.”
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